THE WITCHING GAME
UPPER middle grade fantasy novel (75,000 words)
Blood magic and time-travel with a videogame twist, where the game could mean death: Morgan, thirteen, thinks it’s a fantasy freak's dream come true when he encounters a Spriggan who grants him a wish in return for help. This wish propels Morgan and his friends into a life-and-death conflict with ancient Celtic witches. Morgan discovers the power of his own magic (and learns that time travel makes you itchy).
SAMPLE:
THE WITCHING GAME
Prelude: Village Games and Magick
The shop was cramped and shabby, but to Mrs. Fee it looked as beautiful as Buckingham Palace. She sold books, toys, magic tricks, and vintage computer games, all to her particular taste. The neighborhood kids had been put off at first by her habit of talking to herself. In time, though, they came to count on Village Games and Magick for stocking stuff they couldn't get from other stores. They came to browse the shelves and stayed to hang out in the ratty second hand chairs. Mrs. Fee gave them computer tips and brusque affection.
An old mirror hung in the back hallway of the shop. Each day it reflected the comings and goings of a middle-aged woman with spiderweb hair and shrewd eyes. A cat the color of dust followed her everywhere. Sometimes, when she was feeling low, Mrs. Fee paused in front of the mirror before locking up for the night. With the cat, Tamm, in her arms she muttered a spell.
At her words, the glass shimmered, and the cat revealed his true nature: he was a Spriggan, a wily sprite of a man, with bushy red hair. Then, depending on the words Mrs. Fee chose, various images floated before her in the glass. The mirror might show her twin sister, Caro, far away. Or their childhood home in Ireland, centuries in the past. Or Tamm himself, in the village of a lost time, making mischief as usual.
Sometimes, when Mrs. Fee felt cross at the weary eyes staring back from the mirror, the glass shimmered and revealed a fresh-faced girl — herself, Fiona, at age sixteen, her whole life ahead of her. But whenever that memory appeared, Tamm gave a bored snort and jumped out of her arms, and the spell was broken.
Today, all day, Mrs. Fee had felt out of sorts. The shop had been abuzz since she opened the doors to kids and mothers set adrift by spring break, so she hadn't had a minute to herself. Tamm-cat kept skulking underfoot, and she worried that she might have a wiring problem, something to account for the faint burning smell in the air.
So, contrary to habit, Mrs. Fee locked the front door to the shop at the stroke of five and was about to head out the back when she decided to give herself a treat. She stopped in front of the mirror and scooped up Tamm-cat in her arms. He meowed irritably.
"Oh hush," said Mrs. Fee. "It’s been a wretched day.”
She murmured a spell, and the mirror revealed Tamm in his Spriggan shape.
“You’ve been jumpy as a cat on a hot stove all afternoon,” he whined, pushing a lock of red hair from his eyes.
“Hold still! I need to settle my nerves, then we can go home to our tea.”
Mrs. Fee whispered another spell and waited to see Caro’s face emerge in the glass. Her twin could always make her laugh and reassure her that they'd chosen the right path. But two other faces surfaced in the mirror and swam toward her field of vision.
With a cry of fear, Tamm jumped down and ran to hide.
The glass rippled. The faces vanished. The next instant two silver-white cats leapt through the mirror, like it was an open window, and landed on the floor of the shop. Mrs. Fee spun around. She saw no cats — just a handsome young man, smiling at her with arctic eyes. Fiona drew herself up with dignity. The time has finally come, she thought, yet somehow she was not ready.
“You know it is forbidden to pass through my mirror.”
“We got tired of waiting for an invitation. The centuries just fly by, don’t they?”
Out of the corner of her eye Mrs. Fee saw Tamm vanish into the shadows. “And where is that wretched sister of yours?" she asked.
"Right here, Auntie."
The words purred in her ear, feline and human at the same time. Mrs. Fee felt a cold shock as the blade pierced her throat. When she sank to her knees, all she could focus on was the blood.
So much of it. And such a bright, cherry red.
Chapter 1: The Craptastic Day
After I pushed the witch's cat out the window there was no turning back. I know that now. But that Monday morning, with dark magic from the Netherworld about to blast through, it just seemed like your average ordinary totally crap day.
I woke up in a great mood. It was spring break, and Day One of GamerCon. Soon we'd be heading into the city, just Dad and me. Our first fun solo outing since the circus when, age five, I'd puked up cotton candy all over his loafers. That had kind of sealed our father-son bond early on. I jumped out of bed and into my clothes and ran downstairs so I’d surprise Dad by being on time. Stopped cold. Mom was there alone, still in her exercise sweats. She shot me this worried look I knew too well.
“No," I said. "No freaking way, not today!”
“Morgan, I'm so sorry. Worst timing in the world, I know," Mom said in her patented calm-down voice, "but let me tell you what happened.”
I threw myself into a chair.
“We got this call late last night. Turns out there was a guest cancellation for a national TV spot, so your dad got to step in and plug the new book."
I glared into space as Mom brought over a carton of orange juice. "He's already gone?"
"First flight out."
“How come he didn’t bring me?”
Mom poured the juice and set the glass in front of me. “We talked about that, but he's going to meet with his agent, and his publicist, not so much fun for you.”
I clamped my mouth shut, afraid I’d blurt out something Ground-able.
“I know you're disappointed, but it is kind of cool right? Your Dad, the TV star?"
I clamped my mouth shut tighter. My dad is Galen Morris. You can buy his books anywhere, in airports and supermarkets, like snacks. He writes about social media stuff and youth culture. Bottom line: the younger generation is not facing The Real World and we’re a bunch of spoiled losers. Dad wanted to go to GamerCon with me because he said it would be great research. Secretly, I'd been hoping the whole thing would change his mind, kind of like shock therapy with anime costumes.
Mom poured more coffee in her mug. “I was thinking, why don't I take us downtown, just you and me? Got a couple of showings this afternoon, but I can make some calls."
The idea of Mom wandering through GamerCon made me shudder. Dad at least would be interested in the live action role-play demos. Mom would be nothing but freaked. I'd be banned from gaming till college.
"Mom, I'm old enough to go by myself."
"Yeah, no."
"I can go with my friends."
"Sure, as long as I'm coming with you. Morgan, I'm serious: there's no way you're heading to downtown Chicago on your own, I don't care how many friends come along."
My Mom is a lot stricter than she looks. Except for work she's mostly in jeans and a pullover, not like the dressed-up Northfield moms, and she mostly wears her blond hair in a kind of sloppy ponytail, like she can't be bothered. She looks like she'd be pretty chill, but the truth is she's hardcore. I have to follow more screen time rules and homework rules and behavior rules than any of my friends and telling her how unfair this was gets me exactly nowhere.
I fumed for a while. Mom drank coffee and looked at the news on her phone while I kept my thoughts under wraps. Finally I said, "I wanted Dad to see what it was like, so he'd get it and stop writing about gamers like we're just a bunch of braindead slackers.”
“Make your dad see the light with one convention? Pretty optimistic.”
Maybe she was right. Dad’s opinions about my generation had made him a best-selling author. Why should contact with reality make him change his mind?
“I do have some good news,” Mom said. She undid and redid her ponytail, like she does when she’s stressed. “Dad left you a present.”
Are you thinking there’s going to be a heartwarming father-leaves-son-thoughtful-gift-to-say-sorry kind of thing? Did I mention how craptastic this crap day was?
Chapter 2: Ghost Cat
“Dad left me a present, for real?”
“It was supposed to be for your birthday, but he said you could have it now. Come on, it's in his study.”
I followed Mom up two flights of stairs, my spirits rising. In our house you get gifts on birthdays and Christmas, period, so this meant Dad was for real sorry about ditching me, and that made me feel better for a few minutes there. Sucker.
Dad's study is wall-to-wall books and decorated with photos of himself where he looks into the distance or frowns like he's thinking about biting his thumb. The bookshelves are crammed with what Dad calls evidence of ‘modern superstition.' Dream catchers, new age Tarot cards, crystals, carvings, piles of the stuff.
On the window seat I saw a large box with a gold bow. Mom looked on smiling as I tore off the wrapping and opened it up and stared at — books, a library shelf worth. I pulled out a few, setting them down on the window seat. They were expensive hard covers about science and the natural world. Dad included an autographed copy of his latest bestseller, Taming Your Irrational Mind.
“Dad says you can have your other books back whenever you want, he just thinks you should read these first.”
“Wait, what do you mean, my other books back?”
“You know, all your fantasy and science fiction on the bookshelves? He packed them up to make room for these new ones. Now that you’re heading into high school, this is much more age appropriate.”
Momspeak for: Dad confiscated your books and you can’t have them back till you read these first. I could hear my pulse pounding in my head. Here was Dad’s agenda, all wrapped up like a present. Mom looked at me nervously and took out the card.
‘Dear Morgan, the real world at your fingertips. Happy Birthday. Love, Dad.'
"I’ll let you look these over, okay?"
Mom could tell I was about to lose it. She headed downstairs. My mind drifted as I imagined the headlines: 'Study of Famous Author Incinerated. Suspect Jailed. Seemed like such a normal kid, neighbors told the police.'
Curtains moved in and out of the open window, like they were being inhaled and exhaled.
I sat there wondering what it would feel like to shove the box out the window. The real world at my fingertips. My fingers itched to do it, so I got up and wandered around, and finally sat down at Dad’s massive antique desk.
The desktop was a mess, piles of books with notes sticking out, Dad’s pop culture junk everywhere. A brass work lamp loomed off to one side and propped against it was a Tarot card showing a man strung up by his feet. The Hanging Man. Creepy, Dad. I caught a look at myself reflected in the polished brass: a funhouse face, my ordinary-looking brown hair and hazel eyes gone all warped. Like how I felt on the inside.
I stared at a crystal pyramid, a devil statue, a carved angel, a bowl of odd stones. I started rummaging around in the bowl and found a big stone that looked different from the rest: a greenish square the size of a knuckle. I took it over to the window, and in the light the green looked darker, like a stormy sea. I was staring at the stone when a scratch mark oozing blood appeared on my palm.
"Crap!"
I looked to see what I could have cut my hand on, and there it was, or almost was. The shape of a cat shimmered at the edge of the windowsill. The freaky thing was, I could see right through it. I panicked and pushed at the thing to get it away from me. To my horror I felt fur — very real fur. The cat tumbled through the open window. I heard this terrific crash.
Mom came pounding up the stairs, and there we were, staring out the window down at the lawn, now decorated with pieces of a smashed-up antique birdbath. One of the books from my birthday box lay in the middle of the pile. Dad’s ‘Taming Your Irrational Mind.’
No cat in sight.
Chapter 3: In My Own Backyard
Yeah, Mom didn't believe a word I said about Ghost Cat. Big surprise. In no time I'm out in the backyard, Grounded for the Foreseeable Future, just me and the birdbath and a tub of industrial-strength glue. Of course, since Dad had bought it, this was no ordinary birdbath. According to Mom it was French and about a hundred years old, but all I could see was jagged pieces covered with scum and bird poop.
My strategy was to smear glue on two sides of a break and sit holding the pieces together till my arms felt like they were going to fall off. I’d been at it for a while when my left leg went numb, so I shifted position, and a sharp pain raked my hand. I looked down and saw a slash of blood. Out of nowhere came this tiny voice:
“Stand and Deliver! I have a weapon and I know how to use it.”
I froze.
After the surprise, I got it. One of my friends was messing with me. Probably Luce, hiding in the bushes, waiting with her iPhone to video me making a fool of myself.
“Down here, lad! You know what I want, hand it over and nobody gets hurt!”
I looked: there, waving a little silver sword, stood what looked like a mini troll bot.
“Comedy genius,” I shouted. "Does Mrs. Fee know you swiped her sword?"
I'd recognized it right away. Mrs. Fee keeps that sword by the cash register in Village Games and Magick. She's got souvenirs from her travels all over the place.
“Mrs. Fee won’t be needing it anymore and that’s a fact.”
I made a grab for the bot, but it ducked and stabbed my kneecap.
“Luce, deactivate this thing or I’m gonna break it!”
“I’ll be doing the breaking!"
I leaned forward and got a shock. Up close, it looked way too realistic for a bot.
“Cat got your tongue?"
I looked around the yard again for a friend playing a trick. Nobody. I was alone, and for the second time that morning I felt beyond freaked. “What...what are you?”
“The fact that you do not recognize a Spriggan is evidence that the species is getting dimmer by the century and a strong argument against Mr. Darwin's evolution.”
“A Spriggan. Is that like a sprite or something?”
The creature snorted.“Spriggans are by far the superior species, as everyone knows."
I flashed on the impossible possibility: maybe everything in my life had been heading to this moment, when by chance I came across living proof that the worlds of fantasy were as real as our own world, flesh and blood and bone real. True as breath.
The Spriggan stabbed me again. "Ow!"
“What part of Stand and Deliver are you not understanding?”
The bot made a lunge but this time I was ready. I grabbed the sword and shoved it in my back pocket.
“Thief!"
That's when we heard a sound that made us both freeze — a deep, teeth-bared dog growl. Then this Border collie named Lobo came bounding across the yard at fast-forward speed. Luce claims her dog is a protector, but I know a canine homicidal maniac when I see one. Lobo charged. The Spriggan took off at a mad run. Lobo scrambled after him and I raced behind.
"Stop!" I heard Luce call.
But Lobo was on the hunt. I saw a flash of red hair and made a flying leap and landed in the dirt with the Spriggan in hand. Lobo lunged, jaws snapping.
“I said stop!” Luce got her dog by the collar and gave him a talking to as I checked out the Spriggan. He looked frozen by fright. “Was there a cat?” asked Luce, looking around. “Lobo goes crazy for cats.”
I shrugged. I was holding onto the Spriggan, wondering what Luce was going to do when the little guy started talking. I’d taken a lot of teasing for being such a fantasy geek. Now I felt like a magician about to perform the best trick of his career. Luce stood there looking at me impatiently, her black hair in this long braid, her face all flushed from the run. It came to me that I wanted to impress her more than just about anything else in the world. I took a deep breath.
"Luce, what if I told you I have proof, actual proof, that there are other realities, I mean like, other life forms?"
Luce drew herself up to her full height and stood there looking at me with those eyes that always make me think of chocolate bars. "Fantasy worlds are real? Hold on...too late...I'm already dead from boredom."
I stood tall as I could — I come up about to her nose. "Hilarious. But I have actual proof." I held out the Spriggan. "Go on, she's my friend, say something, you can insult her too."
Luce stared at me like she was waiting for the punch line. I waited too, expecting the Spriggan to start blabbing. I waited for a painfully long moment and then looked at the Spriggan up close. My heart stopped. What I was holding was nothing but a plastic action figure with a bad paint job.
“Give me that.” Luce snatched the Spriggan. “Morgan, focus. I've been texting you all morning. What happened to GamerCon?"
“Cancelled, for me anyway. And my cell got confiscated,” I mumbled, staring at the Spriggan-bot.
Luce sighed. "Okay, that truly sucks. I get it, a talking fantasy action figure, huh?" She handed him back to me. "If you're brainstorming ideas for Video Club, I'd make him an elf vampire or something. Retro Garden Gnome Blood Sucker?"
"No," I said, staring at the Spriggan. "I mean, yeah. Whatever."
Luce frowned. "What's up with you?"
We walked over to the deck and sat down. Luce had on this long skirt and a top like girls wear for ballet. Her skin smelled, as always, kind of like caramel, and I was finding it hard to get the words right in my head. When I delayed, she didn't make a smart remark, she just looked at me sympathetically.
"Okay, here's the truth, swear to God," I hoped my voice wouldn't crack, my heart was beating so fast. "First Dad skips out this morning to do an interview in New York, so GamerCon is a no-go. Then there's this cat, looks like a ghost, and it scratches me and I shove it and it falls out the window along with Dad’s book. Smashes the birdbath to bits. Mom thinks I did it on purpose, of course, so I get grounded. Then this little guy stabs me with a sword, says he's a Spriggan — a grade higher than an elf, according to him — but now he looks like a plastic action figure and it's like I'm having a nervous breakdown, you know?"
Luce edged closer to me and peered into my eyes and I had trouble breathing. With her so near my brain short-circuited and I just stared back. She said, "I don't think you have serious brain damage, your eyes look the same, kind of pond scum green."
I exhaled. "Thanks."
“Was it a real cat?” Luce asked. "Did it get hurt in the fall?"
"Don't think so, the cat disappeared. I looked out the window and all I saw was the book box and the smashed bird bath."
"Hold on — Morgan, tell me you're not talking about that birdbath."
I looked where she was pointing, and my jaw dropped. The birdbath stood there looking like the day my dad brought it back from the antique store, all whole and shiny and perfect.